


Lights Passing on an Evening Train

by ladyflowdi



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-08
Updated: 2009-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/ladyflowdi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how it goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights Passing on an Evening Train

**Author's Note:**

> LJ-to-AO3 archival project: I wrote this in August of 2009 as part of the Flash Fifteen. The community is long gone, but the fic remains.

This is how it goes. Rain is streaking dirty windows, catching the lights of the passing trolleys and billboards and city life, pub signs and restaurant signs and security lights from closed shops. Arthur’s clothes smell of cigarettes and cheap beer, and his forehead and chin feel grimy, from smoke and kisses and memories made. Tomorrow, the pictures on his phone will show him at his most unattractive. He’ll print them, and hang them up in his office.

This is how it goes. Between the four of them they barely have enough fare for the train back home, all their pocket money spent on increasingly outrageous frou-frou drinks and chips. Arthur has had six Twisted Nipples, and the tart taste of them on his tongue chases the cigarette smoke.

This is how it goes. The girls are sitting with their temples pressed together, the music they’re sharing on a single pair of ear buds so loud Arthur can hear the tinny thu-thu _crash_ of the drums. Morgana has worn her hideous scarf all night long; Arthur can see the dark red stain of wine on the edge. She’ll wash it but the stain will never quite go away, and every time she wears it Arthur will think of this, right here, the flickering florescent lights above, the rain pattering against the glass window, the smell of damp wool and hair spray and skin.

This is how it goes. Merlin is tucked under his arm asleep, cheek pressed to Arthur’s chest, to the pink and blue couture sweater he always makes fun of Arthur for wearing. He’s drooling, probably, more than likely, drooling beer and frou-frou drinks all over Arthur’s chest, but Arthur doesn’t care. That’s Merlin’s hair pressed to his chin, tickling his nose, and Merlin’s skinny wrist slung across Arthur’s middle, and Merlin’s leg tangled with Arthur’s, propped up between Morgana and Gwen. He’s drawn dragons all over the canvas of his trainers, and Morgana’s fingertip keeps tracing the bolts of fire. 

This is how it goes. Morgana is his cousin, and Gwen is his cousin’s best mate, and Merlin is his everything. And they’re riding this stupid train through London to get home, and Arthur’s feet ache from dancing, and the sweet little bow’s corner of Merlin’s lips has beard burn. And Morgana has her enormous black glasses on, her eyes closed as she mouths the lyrics to the music, and Gwen is watching them, honey skin glowing, smiling and smiling.

This is how it goes. Rain is streaking dirty windows, catching the lights of the city. Merlin’s hair smells like apples, pressed so close to his cheek, and he’s got a bit of tomato ketchup on the side of his chin where Gwen had thrown a chip at him, laughing. He’s pale, and the lights overhead don’t do a thing for him, and Arthur takes a picture of him right then, right in that moment, because Merlin is waxy with exhaustion, and too skinny by half, and has that ketchup on his face, and Arthur has never seen anything more beautiful.


End file.
